The One Where He's Not Dead
by KingAleksander
Summary: Three years later and Sherlock has returned- but John Watson trusts this ghost no longer.


**TRIGGER WARNING: DISCUSSION OF SUICIDE**

Every year on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John sleeps in the man's bed. Despite the long three years it's been, his faint cologne and distinct smell of _Sherlock _still sticks. He dedicates the day to Sherlock, first visiting his grave that morning and then spending the day walking around London to all of the places he remembers them going. He has to take frequent breaks because of his limp, but this doesn't bother him. He pretends that he and Sherlock are taking a break to take in the view. Next to him, Sherlock remarks at all the people cheating on their spouses and the ones doing drugs. Multiple times that day, John thinks he sees a flash of a black coat around a corner, but instead of hope he only feels despair. Sherlock would never come back, and even if he did, John is useless now.

He returns to the flat and makes dinner for himself, setting out two places like he always has. When he finally retires to Sherlock's room, their cat (affectionately named Brook by Sherlock) is asleep in the middle. John carefully scoots the cat over and climbs in.

"Mrs. Hudson," a voice calls from outside her door. The woman opens the door, shocked, and yanks the man inside by his scarf. Even Anderson could deduce that she is furious. "How _dare _you-" She goes on this for a few minutes before calming down a bit and sitting across from him at her table. "...Do you know what you did to him? You broke him, Sherlock. He tried to kill himself three times. It's only thanks to your brother that he is still living here."  
>"How?" Sherlock rasps.<p>

"Gun to the temple, the first time. I caught him. Last year he jumped into the Thames on Christmas Eve. Your brother and that Lestrade fellow saw him and Lestrade jumped in after him." She hesitates to tell him the most recent one, but figures he should know. "The last was a couple months ago. He overdosed on some drugs he found laying around the flat."

"He's not-"

"No, he's out for a walk. Does this every year," she answers quietly.

"...I missed you, Mrs. Hudson." The woman makes a small noise in her throat and stands up, pulling him into a hug.

"I missed you, too."

When John awakes in the middle of the night, he is panicked. He distinctly realizes that his head is not resting on his -_Sherlock's_- pillow, and glances up up quickly. His breathing stops and he jumps backward. "You..."

"John..."

"No, no no no no, you can't be here. You died. You're _dead_, Sherlock. Why can you just leave me alone?"

Sherlock doesn't respond verbally, but he holds out his hand, palm up. Deciding no one will see if his hand passes through Sherlock's, he takes it.

It feels as though he's surging with electricity. Sherlock says his name again.

"...Are you staying?" John chokes out. An affirmative nod is his reply. "Then we'll talk in the morning. Lay down."

Sherlock complies, making John even more sure that this is an apparition. They fall asleep with their hands clasped between them, and as John slips off back into his dreams, he faintly thinks he hears Sherlock say, "I'm sorry."

When John wakes up, Sherlock is gone and the bed next to him cold. He sighs and pulls his knees up to his chest and closes his eyes. He hates himself for believing this Sherlock was real. A strangled sob rips itself from his chest and footsteps immediately are heard. He doesn't care and shrugs off the hand placed on his shoulder. "Go away, Mrs. Hudson."

The hand owner doesn't respond, so John rubs at his face and looks up, flinching. "You're not real. Please leave me alone." The ghost's figures contort in pain and he retreats.

"Mrs. Hudson! He...he thinks I'm not real. What do I do?"

"Go and stop breakfast from burning," is all she says, ushering him back out of her flat.

Sherlock lays out breakfast and returns to the bedroom for John. "...I made breakfast." When he receives no response, he tries again. "You said we would talk in the morning."

John sighs. "You're dead, Sherlock. Dead men don't talk."

"I'm not dead! What do I have to do to prove it to you?"

John sits up and stalks out of the room. "You can't. You've been dead _three years_, Sherlock! You've visited me before, and you say the same thing every time. 'I'm alive, John,' 'Please believe me, John.' I'm sick of you not being here and I'm sick of not being able to live without you. I'm not going to fail this time." As he speaks, he fixes himself a tall glass of water and roots around the medicine cabinet for his medicine. Sherlock grabs his wrist.

"You take your coffee without sugar but don't complain if it's made wrong. On your birthday we planned a surprise party but Mike let it slip and you pretended to be surprised for my sake. You slept in the chair that night I snapped at you in Dartmoor but left a glass of water next to my side of the bed as a peace offering."  
>"What are you trying to accomplish here, Sherlock?" John tries to sound angry despite the obvious waver in his voice.<p>

"I need you to believe me. Please."

John doesn't trust his voice to work again, so he slaps Sherlock and retreats to the living room, pulling a scrapbook from one of the shelves. Sherlock follows after a moment, his hand placed over his cheek. John is standing at the kitchen table looking at a scrapbook he had put together on his good days. Sherlock gently places a hand on John's shoulder, but John spins. "How could you?" he snaps. "How could you leave me for so long and not even..." his voice cracks.

"It was the only way to keep you safe. If Moriarty's men figured out that you knew I was alive, they would have killed you or worse. You must believe how hard it was for me as well... Certainly nothing compared to you, but... I was in London last year. I had to sneak into Bart's to utilize their lab, but I couldn't risk being recognized. I disguised myself as a woman and got in. When I left, I had to go through the hospital rooms, and I saw your name on one of the doors..."

"That was _you_?" John whispers. Sherlock nods.

"John Hamish Watson, you have to believe how much I've missed you. I don't deserve your forgiveness and I'm not asking for it, not after that. I just need you to know that you're my best friend. I never wanted this to happen." After a moment of silence, he heads for the door. A hand on his arm stops him. They make eye contact as John is trying to analyze the emotion in Sherlock's eyes. He appears to like what he sees and nods.

"Breakfast, then?"


End file.
